


We Should Be Stars (We Already Are)

by caramelle



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Actors, Alternate Universe - Actors, Alternate Universe - Hollywood, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-03-26 23:07:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13867923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caramelle/pseuds/caramelle
Summary: "Oh yeah, Clarke Griffin was here today, wasn’t she? Playing the lawyer?" Raven’s frown swivels from Monty to Bellamy. “How was she?”Bellamy opens and closes his mouth. "She was... interesting."Raven looks disgusted at his apparent inability to come up with any other adjectives.Or, the one where the hot-headed detective Bellamy Blake plays on a popular cop show gets a new love interest — played by a certain blue-eyed, blonde guest actress.





	We Should Be Stars (We Already Are)

**Author's Note:**

> _BFF prompt: hollywood/actors au where one of them is the star of a popular/acclaimed tv show and the other is playing a disposable love interest that is definitely only there to postpone the true endgame but somehow bellarke hits it off_
> 
>  
> 
> big shout out to [jade](http://sneakyclarke.tumblr.com) bcos i love her and also IT'S HER BIRTHDAY SO HAPPY BIRTHDAY JADE!!!!!!

****  
  


 

 

The question Bellamy hates most about his job, hands down, is “what’s it like getting to kiss so many beautiful people?”

 

Newsflash: It’s a fucking dumb question, folks.

 

Yeah, he’s an actor. Yeah, he’s a lead actor on a decently popular detective show that’s ever so slightly skewed more towards young adults than regular-aged adults. Yeah, part of his job is locking lips with beautiful men and women.

 

But the thing most people _don’t_ seem to get about acting is that _it’s a fucking job._

 

There’s nothing romantic or sexy about being herded onto a cramped set full of crew members, other actors or, _worse,_ extras, who are basically complete strangers who’ve been paid twenty bucks by the studio to come in off the street and move their mouths pretending to have silent conversations with each other in the background all while pretending not to ogle him and his co-stars the entire time they’re shooting. There’s nothing romantic or sexy about being told to _“go at it”_ while in the midst of all that, with a camera practically two feet from his face and bright, hot lights beating down on him and his scene partner from every possible angle, _especially_ not when at least fifty percent of your body is completely exposed. There’s _definitely_ nothing romantic or sexy about having to repeat the entire process anywhere from eight to twelve times in a row, or until the director decides they’re happy with the amount of bodily fluids that have been accordingly exchanged.

 

Bottom line is, he doesn’t _get_ to do anything. He _has_ to do it.

 

Thankfully, his current gig playing Detective Augustus West on _Squad_ hasn’t forced him to endure anything particularly torturous yet — although he’s privately certain that has more to do with half the writers living in a constant, almost-fear of his admittedly intimidating co-lead. They’ve managed a full season now without having to kiss or pretend to have sex with each other, but everyone knows that season two is when the real will-they-won’t-they tension ramps up between the two leads of any show.

 

The problem _really_ isn’t his co-lead. A few celebrity gossip publications would _love_ to disagree, but the fact is, he _likes_ working with Raven. Granted, they’ve had their fair share of disagreements over the course of the show — legitimate debate about character arcs and motives that any two co-workers would be comfortable having if they were bolstered by a certain measure of amicability, nothing truly major or personal that’s ever bled over into their off-set friendship — but over the last year and a half, they’ve found that the one thing they both unequivocally agree on is that Gus and Morgan are _not_ meant to be.

 

He tries to be patient whenever the subject comes up in interviews, but he can tell Raven’s (admittedly lower) tolerance is starting to wear thin. “Morgus is not going to happen, guys,” she’ll exclaim with a thinly veiled roll of her eyes, referencing the ship name coined by a few zealous fans. “Stop trying to make it happen!”

 

“I mean, it even sounds like a Tolkien villain,” he’ll joke, even if only to soothe the sting for the few over-enthusiastic shippers. “That should tell you all you need to know.”

 

“Honestly, it’s kind of insulting,” Raven says one time as they’re in hair and makeup, getting ready for another interview with some other web publication. “Morgan and Gus have _zero_ romantic chemistry! Do people really think we should hook up? Just because, what, we’re both brown? Or is it just because we’re both hot?”

 

“Just because we’re both brown and _I’m_ hot,” he quips in an attempt to cool her down. For his trouble, he ends up receiving a solid punch to the arm.

 

All in all, he’s thoroughly grateful for the precious few months’ break they get in between promoting season one and the start of filming for season two. He loves Raven, he really does, but she’s a lot like tequila — hard, sharp and a lot of fun, but best consumed in small doses.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Season two kicks off with a bang. Literally.

 

Episode one starts with a murder apparently committed by a firework, and he would ask, but after sixteen episodes of homicides committed in all sorts of weird ass ways, he’s all but given up looking for the real-life logic in anything the writers hand him.

 

Somehow, the two-episode arc calls for a lawyer from the DA’s office to show up in the precinct, and the lawyer shows up on set exactly ten minutes before she’s due. After exchanging a few words with the director and an executive producer, she walks towards him, already perfectly prepped and polished in her sharp black-and-grey suit as the crew scrambles to reset everything off the scene they’ve just finished.

 

“Clarke Griffin,” she says, extending a hand to him as he’s on his way to his chair. “I’ll be playing the role of Evelyn Jeffrey.”

 

He takes the proffered hand automatically, pumping briskly up and down. “Bellamy Blake. Welcome aboard,” he says shortly, already turning away to continue towards his chair. (Later, he’ll concede that he could have made a _little_ effort at being slightly more hospitable — but in his honest defense, he was still recovering from a minor coughing bug that left him parched as fuck, _and_ he only had about thirty seconds to grab a drink before getting called back.)

 

Either way, when he returns to set two minutes later, Clarke Griffin seems a little less than friendly, and it’s not just her sleek lawyer get-up. He doesn’t pay much attention to her reserved demeanour, chalking it up to personal working style. Some actors don’t like to bandy words between scenes, preferring to stay in character or remain ‘in the zone’. (Privately, he finds it a little _intense_ for a guest actor on a relatively small-time detective show that only averages about a million viewers per week, but hey, to each their own.)

 

The scene calls for them to meet practically in the middle of the precinct — _why_ do cop shows love doing that, by the way? Nobody just stops and stands right in the middle of the office, blocking everybody’s way just to have a whole conversation — and then he gets interrupted by Monty with an update on whatever magic tech breakthrough he’s just made on their case. Standard stuff, simple enough… but then something about the way Clarke Griffin readies herself for the scene has him, inexplicably, on edge. She listens _extremely_ intently to their director, Anya, and then spends the few moments they have after _“clear the set”_ smoothing out her already perfectly wrinkle-free blazer, which he finds vastly more unnerving than he’d expected.

 

Usually, before getting ready to run a scene, he exchanges a small glance or nod with his partner or partners. It’s nothing of real importance, just a tiny universal custom of sorts he’s found extends throughout TV, movies, theatre — nearly all the acting world, basically. A small moment to check in with each other, touch base and say _“hey, let’s do this together”._

 

From Clarke Griffin, he gets… nothing.

 

Cheeks heating slightly, he turns sideways and flips open the folder he’s supposed to be studying, two seconds before Anya calls _“action!”_ Whatever, he tells himself. It’s really no big deal.

 

Despite his silent self-reassurances, the annoyance he looks up with when Clarke steps into his space with a commanding _“Detective Augustus West?”_ isn’t entirely feigned.

 

To her credit, Clarke seems to pick up on it right away, instantly spiking her own levels of impatient imperiousness as she delivers her lines. He tosses it right back at her, often jumping in before she can even really finish — out of his own irritation, but also a good bit of curiosity, just to see what she’ll do when she’s thrown off-rhythm. He’s surprised (and, grudgingly, a little impressed) to find that she keeps up almost effortlessly with his ramped-up pace, even returning the favour by cutting him off once or twice.

 

All in all, when Monty shows up to interrupt them, the off-kilter expression on his face is definitely _not_ an act.

 

“Cut!” Anya calls when they’re done, a shark-like grin on her face. “All right, good take, everybody! Let’s get ready to run it again!” She points at a cameraman. “Bryan, I want that close-up on Gus when she walks away. Bellamy, make sure to do that face again. Yeah, no, the ‘what-the-fuck’ one with your mouth open. It’s fuckin’ _gold._ ”

 

“Yeah, okay,” Bellamy says, trying not to look _too_ off-put by her feedback. Well. At least he managed to make his final response to Clarke Griffin look like a deliberate acting choice.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Once they’re done with that scene, he’s wrapped for the day. Nevertheless, he can’t help but linger on set for Clarke’s second and final scene for the episode.

 

The scene itself is simple enough: a static conversation between Clarke’s character and the captain of the precinct, played by Indra. She pushes, Indra pulls. The usual spirited young lawyer/grouchy police captain stuff. A two-minute conversation like that generally takes, at the very least, about forty-five minutes to shoot, at least.

 

They get the whole thing done within twenty-five.

 

Clarke hangs back for a few minutes, talking with Indra, Anya, and then one of their writers-slash-producers, Lincoln. Finally, she excuses herself and turns to walk off set.

 

“Hey,” he says, slightly breathless. He may or may not have practically leapt out of his chair to catch up with her. “That was good.”

 

She stops in her tracks, turning to face him, but her expression remains somewhat shuttered. “Thanks.”

 

“Sorry if I was a little, uh, _much_ today,” he says, after a beat of awkward silence. “I don’t usually go that hard, especially not on anyone’s first day.”

 

Her blonde head tilts, and at that moment, he could swear he sees a flash of ice glinting in her blue eyes.

 

“Don’t worry,” she says, her tone perfectly polite but undercut with steel. “I can handle however _much_ you give me.”

 

He blinks, rocking back on his heels. “I— no, that’s not what I—”

 

“I have to go,” she interrupts, and, okay, her voice has _definitely_ dropped a couple degrees. “See you for episode two.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

He pulls up IMDb on his phone the second he’s off set, typing in _‘Clarke Griffin’_ into the search bar faster than he’s ever typed anything in his life.

 

Both his brows shoot up high when her filmography section loads, because shit, that’s a _lot_ of credits. It’s all the usual — one season on this daytime soap, an indie film in which a bunch of eighteen-year-olds go on roadtrips to _find themselves,_ a handful of guest stints on teen dramas where thirty-somethings play high-schoolers, a regular role on a HBO dramedy that got cancelled after one six-episode season, plus one C-grade horror movie dated several years back. None of it is Oscar bait, but she’s worked _a lot,_ and a hell of a lot more consistently than he did before _Squad._ He glances through her bio briefly, noting with a prickle of shame and reluctant admiration that even though he’s got a good five years on her, she’s already catching up real fast.

 

He tucks his phone back into his pocket and decides yeah, treating her like some inexperienced greenhorn was probably _not_ the best apology strategy.

 

“Jesus, I’m fuckin’ wrecked,” Raven says as they’re in the wardrobe trailer, returning their costumes to Maya. “Next time you can do all the chasing-after-perps scenes.”

 

“It was a _car chase,_ Raven,” he says dryly. “You were sitting the entire time.”

 

“So it won’t be too hard on your delicate ass when it’s your turn, then,” she shoots back easily. “How were things on your end?”

 

He thinks for a couple of seconds, casting about for the right word. It wasn’t a _terrible_ experience, not at all. _Definitely_ not great either, but still… somehow, something about it seemed _important_ to him. He’s never been this unnerved by a fellow actor before, not in nearly ten years of acting.

 

Finally, he settles on the very vague and generic, “Interesting.”

 

That earns a polite snort from behind the changing curtain.

 

“Shut up, Monty,” Bellamy warns.

 

“What?” Raven demands, eyes lighting up. “What does that mean? Monty, get out here and spill.”

 

Monty emerges from behind the curtain, in street clothes with his costume neatly arranged on a hanger. “Nothing,” he says, deliberately avoiding Bellamy’s warning gaze. “Just something about a guest actor.”  

 

“Oh yeah, Clarke Griffin was here today, wasn’t she? Playing the lawyer?” Raven’s frown swivels from Monty to Bellamy. “How was she?”

 

Bellamy opens and closes his mouth. “She was... interesting.”

 

Raven looks disgusted at his apparent inability to come up with any other adjectives.

 

“You’re in the scene with her for next week’s shoot, right?” Monty asks, putting the hanger up on the rack. “You’ll see.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Of course, it only takes Raven about three takes to decide she’s on Clarke’s side.

 

“What?” she says at his wounded expression. “I like her.”

 

“You’ve known her five minutes,” he says, letting some of his irritation seep into his tone. “You don’t like _anybody_ until it’s been at least five _months_.”

 

“I liked Monty right away,” she points out.

 

“Monty doesn’t count. Everyone likes Monty right away.”

 

“It’s true,” Monty says, through a mouthful of Danish pastry off craft services.

 

“Fine, okay,” Raven says, jabbing her cup of coffee at him so the steaming liquid swishes dangerously towards the rim. “I like her _style._ ”

 

No surprise there. Clarke is efficient and effective — two of Raven Reyes’s absolute favourite things.

 

In fact, she’s only on set for a total of two days, but somehow, Clarke Griffin manages to get more than just (most of) the cast on her side.

 

“She’s good,” Kane says as they’re gathered around a monitor, watching a playback. “We should think about getting her back for more episodes.”

 

At that, everyone silently turns to look at the showrunner. Jaha’s expression is, as always, annoyingly inscrutable — save for the slight curve of his mouth. A small but distinct curve Bellamy knows all too well.

 

“Yes,” Jaha says, his tone measured. “We should.”

 

Most of the small crowd dissipates after that, moving off to return to their respective jobs or lounging areas while they wait for Monty and Indra to return from wardrobe.

 

Bellamy remains at the monitor, staring at the very last frame of the playback.

 

Him and Clarke. His hands on his hips, her arms folded across her chest.

 

Their eyes locked together.

 

“Fuck me,” he mutters, and turns away to head back to his chair.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The studio manages to nab Clarke for six more episodes as Evelyn Jeffrey. According to their network liaison, Harper, the contract was left deliberately open to the possibility of more appearances over the season.

 

“Jaha’s got a few ideas,” Kane tells them as they’re sitting down for a table read of episode 203, “but so far, he really likes the tension between Gus and Evelyn. Brilliant lawyer, hot-headed cop — there’s real potential for good conflict there.”

 

“Oh, yeah, we definitely _love_ the _tension,_ ” Raven says, with a shit-eating grin.

 

He kicks her under the table, making sure to aim for her good leg.

 

Nevertheless, he’s pretty sure he knows _exactly_ what ‘tension’ Jaha and the writers are thinking of by the time he gets the script for episode 205, the one in which, after a hasty rewrite, Evelyn Jeffrey returns.

 

Bellamy likes his job, he really does. Even so, there are lots of things he would like to say to the writers every now and then. But he’s also a big believer in cordial professional relationships, so whenever he does have frustrations, he vents them to just _one_ writer, and that’s Lincoln.

 

“This entire scene doesn’t even make sense,” he gripes to Lincoln on one of their long runs. “Why would Gus go all the way to her office just to show her the security cam footage? Why wouldn’t he just _email_ her?”

 

“Yes, because that’s why people watch TV,” Lincoln says. “To watch people email things to each other they could have just said face to face.”

 

Bellamy rolls his eyes, annoyed at the other man’s placidness. “It feels like you guys are just milking it.”

 

Lincoln turns to look at him. “That’s literally what TV _is._ ”

 

“I still don’t know if this is such a good idea,” Bellamy says, changing tacks. “I mean, I don’t know if any of you have picked up on this, but Clarke Griffin doesn’t even _like_ me.”

 

“Should I make sure to split you up during snack time, then?” At Bellamy’s annoyed glare, Lincoln chuckles. “Look, it’s fine. We don’t need her to like you. As long as you two keep bringing that magic, we’re good.”

 

“The magic of _what,_ ” Bellamy huffs. “Mutual animosity?”

 

Lincoln shrugs, unperturbed. “We can call it that if you want.”

 

“If _I_ want?!” Bellamy echoes, whipping his head round to look at the other man.

 

Lincoln merely delivers another nonchalant shrug. “Just saying. It’s funny how you said the problem was her not liking you. You never said anything about you not liking _her._ ”

 

Bellamy practically chokes on his next gulp of air. “I don’t— _what_ —” He breaks off, and swallows. “I’m a goddamn _professional._ ”

 

Lincoln nods, still infuriatingly calm. “So _be_ a professional.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Be a professional,” Bellamy mutters to himself as he’s walking to set for the first scene of episode 205. “Yeah, sure. I can be a fuckin’ professional.”

 

“What’s that now?” Monty says, falling into step beside him.

 

“Jitters,” Bellamy lies, rolling his shoulders in a show of limbering up. “Big episode, right?”

 

Monty scrunches his nose, glancing down at the rolled up script in his own hand. “Is it?”

 

“Yes, it is,” Bellamy says quickly. “Let’s go, Anya will kill us if we’re late.”

 

His scene with Clarke is the last one of the day. Unfortunately, it’s also set in Evelyn Jeffrey’s office instead of the precinct, which means instead of being surrounded by the comforting presence of Raven and Monty and about eight other extras, it’s just him and Clarke corralled in that small room with nothing but a desk between them.

 

“All right, we want this to go just like 201 and 202,” Anya tells them, clearly gleeful over getting to direct their onscreen reunion. “Keep it on the coals, ramp the tension, really stay in that space and work it.”

 

He nods, unable to resist a quick glance at Clarke. She’s in another suit, slate grey and sleek. She nods too but doesn’t meet his gaze.

 

“Roll camera,” Anya calls. “And… _action!_ ”

 

He swaggers into the room, as Gus would do if he knew he had the edge over someone. Clarke (Evelyn) looks up, an expression of aggressive disinterest quickly materialising on her face.

 

“Detective West,” she greets, the perfect balance of bored and annoyed. “I wasn’t expecting to see you today.”

 

“Miss Jeffrey. Hope I’m not interrupting your _pursuit of justice,_ ” he says, throwing himself into a chair. It’s a direct reference to one of her lines in episode 201.

 

She rolls her eyes and puts her pen down. “Can I help you with something?”

 

“Actually,” he says, holding up a flash drive, “I thought maybe _I_ could help _you_.”

 

She stares at the flash drive hard, still feigning boredom. “And what, exactly, is that?”

 

He tosses the flash drive over, barely aware of what he’s doing until it’s already leaving his hand. To his utter surprise, she reaches up without missing a beat, catching the drive perfectly in one palm.

 

_He was supposed to toss it onto the table._

 

Shoving back the urge to drop his jaw, he forces himself to maintain an expression of smirking arrogance. “I could tell you," he says, arching a brow in challenge, "but it’s so much more fun watching you find out for yourself.”

 

The rest of the scene goes off without a hitch — a lot of scowling on her part, a lot of posturing on his — but even so, he finds himself exhaling in relief once Anya calls _‘cut!’_ (At least, he likes to _think_ it’s relief. He doesn’t quite know how else to interpret the giddy, swooping rush in his gut.) He's probably going to get a word of rebuke for his little moment of improv there, but whatever Anya's got for him, it's bound to be a lot better than the mortification of explaining himself or, worse, meeting Clarke Griffin's eye.

 

“Great stuff, guys,” Anya calls from behind the camera. “Let’s run it again, exactly the same.”

 

Bellamy frowns at her, acutely conscious of Clarke’s gaze trained on him. “ _Exactly_ the same?”

 

“Oh yeah,” Anya says with a decisive nod. “With the toss and everything. Ready to go in two!” She turns towards the script supervisor, their heads huddling over a page.

 

“Shit,” Bellamy mutters as he pushes out of the chair to move back to his starting position. Having to throw things in scenes is always a gamble, _especially_ if you’re throwing it _to_ someone instead of a stationary object like a basketball hoop or a wastepaper bin. Double the persons involved, double the chances of fucking up. For example, he doesn’t have to worry about hitting someone in the face when his target is a _wastepaper bin._

 

Clarke Griffin stiffens at that, and looks up. “Don’t worry,” she says, the same chilly note returning to her voice. “I’ll be sure to catch it.”

 

He starts, turning back around to face her. “Yeah,” he says automatically, brows furrowed in confusion. “I know.”

 

She blinks, looking peculiarly stunned at that.

 

“All right!” Anya calls commandingly. “Places, people!”

 

For some reason he can’t quite quantify, the next take goes better than the first.

 

The third one is even smoother. They’ve always been able to settle into a good rhythm with little difficulty, but this time, something about their rapport is really and truly _flowing._ It just… _works._

 

On the very last take, he shoots Clarke (Evelyn) a wink right before he turns to swan out of her office.

 

“Cut! _Nice_ ,” Anya says approvingly once he’s closed the fake door behind him. “Okay, ready for playback!”

 

Stepping back through the door, he heads towards the monitors, sharply aware of Clarke’s presence at his side, barely a foot away. Taking advantage of the few seconds of relative privacy they have from the stage to the monitors, he glances at her. “I hope that was okay,” he says, keeping his tone low but casual. He means the scene. He means the wink too, but if she's not thinking of it, he's sure as hell not going to be the one to bring it up.

 

She glances at him. “Yeah,” she says. “It was.”

 

Her expression is still unreadable, but not quite as _hard,_ which he’s willing to take as a small win.

 

They gather round the monitors to watch the playback, and Bellamy braces himself for the typical self-consciousness of watching himself perform. The scene plays out more or less the way he pictures it in his head, even if he is privately surprised to see for himself the visual evidence that, yes, his and Clarke’s performance really _has_ been getting noticeably better over the last hour.

 

He starts to step back from the monitor once he watches himself wink ( _idiot_ ) and walk out the door, assuming the scene done. But then he stops, his eyes flicking to the monitor showing the shot of Clarke’s face. He watches, mesmerised, as a small smile appears on her face — a bit of exasperation, a bit of… _not-_ hatred? Whatever it is, she shakes her head, and looks back down at her computer, her mouth still quirked in that peculiar expression that's, for no reason at all, setting off fireworks in his ribcage.

 

"Brilliant," Anya announces, clapping her hands together. "And that's a wrap!"

 

 

* * *

 

 

The script for episode 207 arrives on a Thursday. It takes seven whole rings for Lincoln to answer the phone.

 

"A date?" Bellamy demands with no preamble. "A _date_?!"

 

"Oh, hey, Bellamy," Lincoln says innocuously. "What's up?"

 

"Gus West doesn't ask people out on _dates_!"

 

"The barista in one-oh-three," Lincoln instantly says. "The gym trainer in one-oh-eight. Librarian, one-fourteen—"

 

"Fine," Bellamy grits out. "Gus West doesn't ask _lawyers_ from the _DA's office_ out on _dates_!"

 

"He does now," Lincoln says, annoyingly calm. "Look, if you didn't want us to go here, then maybe you should have thought about it before flirting with her that hard."

 

"I— _what_ —" Bellamy sputters. "I am a _professional!_ "

 

"Then do your job and ask her out," Lincoln says, and the connection goes dead.

 

He thinks about venting to Raven next, but then his phone buzzes with a text from her that's just a photo of the script page where Gus asks Evelyn out, captioned _'HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA'_ and after some consideration, he decides she probably won't be the best person to confide in.

 

For a beat, a crazy impulse to talk to _Clarke_ about this flashes up in his head — an impulse that he instantly chases away. First of all, he doesn't have her number, which means he'd have to _ask_ someone for it, and that's just a big no. Second of all, it's just _acting._ Why the hell would he need to talk to someone about _pretending_ to ask them out?

 

"Be a professional," he tells himself, saying the words aloud for maximum effect as he returns to his script. "Be a fucking _professional._ "

 

He can do this. He can totally do this.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He can't do this.

 

The script calls for him to catch her on her way out from her meeting with the precinct captain and then ask her out, practically in the middle of the entire bullpen and in front of about ten other people including Raven and Monty.

 

As if that wasn't enough to freak the fuck out about, Anya goes and decides that for the second half of the scene, he's going to follow her _into the elevator_ so that it's _just the two of them in a tiny box._

 

(Also, who the fuck decided that Anya would be directing _this_ many episodes of season two?!)

 

"Any questions?" Anya asks once she's done briefing them. He automatically shakes his head, even if it's only to appear more confident than he feels.

 

"Good," Anya says, gesturing towards Bryan. "Ready A-cam!"

 

Bellamy blinks then, eyes darting between her and the cameraman. "We're not doing a practice run first?" With scenes that require a lot of movement and dynamic camera work, they usually perform without the cameras at least once through, just to give everyone a sense of orientation.

 

"Hell no," Anya says, nodding to Bryan. "This is gonna be new territory for both Gus and Evelyn, Gus especially. Clean-cut lawyers aren't his type, and impulsive cops definitely aren't hers either. I want the rhythm to be a little off-kilter here, which means I need both of you as unpracticed as possible." She glances at him, one eyebrow arching sharply. "Problem?"

 

"No," he says, a little _too_ loudly in order to drown out the inaudible sound of his brain screaming _'YES!'_

 

"No problem," Clarke agrees, her tone faultlessly neutral, which he both hates and admires. The camera hasn't even started rolling yet, and she's already giving a better performance than him.

 

_Be a professional,_ he reminds himself as they move to their positions, Anya yelling last-minute instructions at the boom operator as she strides towards her chair. He pointedly ignores Raven seated at Morgan's desk, snickering behind her hand.

 

_Be a professional._

 

"Roll camera," Anya calls. "And… _action!_ "

 

Clarke (Evelyn) emerges from the captain's office and he springs up instantly.

 

"Miss Jeffrey," he says, injecting a healthy dose of charm into his voice.

 

She stops short, turning slightly to look at him. "Detective West."

 

He gestures between them, making sure to tilt his head so that his grin turns out just a couple degrees more lopsided than usual. "Funny how we keep bumping into each other like this."

 

Her brow arches. "Yes, bumping into each other at each other's places of _work._ Imagine that," she says, dry as sand.

 

Unperturbed, he glances meaningfully towards the captain's closed office door. "I take it the Wallace case is all wrapped up?"

 

She straightens at that, adjusting her hold on her briefcase as if steeling herself. "Yes, it is." She holds for a beat, and he makes sure to give her a prompting wag of his brows. "Your investigation efforts," she says, through half-gritted teeth, "were very helpful. Thank you." Something about Clarke's delivery makes it clear that Evelyn's not on edge because she's uncomfortable, but rather because she's trying to refrain from _conceding,_ from giving something away. Something like a _smile._

 

He spreads his hands. "Just doing my job, Miss Jeffrey."

 

The corner of her mouth quirks. "As am I, Detective West." She starts to turn away. "Now, if you'll excuse me—"

 

He starts towards her. "Actually, I was hoping to grab a few seconds with you."

 

She pauses, clearly thrown off-guard. "Is this about the case?"

 

"No," he says immediately, pausing for dramatic effect. "But I think it'll be just as interesting."

 

She narrows her eyes at him — perfect balance of suspicion and sincere interest — and then shakes her head. "I don't have time for games, Detective," she says, striding off. "Good day."

 

He takes off after her as directed, Bryan practically nipping at his heels to keep up. "And I don't _play_ games, Miss Jeffrey. I just think it could be beneficial for us to explore this a little."

 

"Beneficial for _whom,_ exactly?" she throws over her shoulder as they reach the elevator, one finger jabbing the call button. "And explore _what_?"

 

He shrugs. "Come on. There's a spark here."

 

She scoffs, disbelieving with the perfect sprinkling of genuine amusement. "There is no _spark._ _Sparks,_ Detective West, are for hormonal teenagers still in high school, not full-grown adults working in law enforcement." The doors slide open with a cheery _ding_. "Also," she adds as she steps into the elevator, "there is no _spark._ "

 

Deftly positioning himself in the threshold, he holds the doors open with a hand on each frame and leans in to meet her gaze. "All right, fine, here it is. Cards on the table? There's an attraction here. Don't roll your eyes at me," he says at her little show of indifference, "I know damn well there is. And I think we both know what it's like to try and date people who don't understand what it's like to work seventy hours a week trying to _literally_ fight crime, so what the hell. A little common ground can't hurt, right?"

 

She lifts her chin. "I work _eighty_ hours a week."

 

"I'll pick up an extra shift to match," he says easily, pushing the doors back as they attempt to close on him and leaning in a bit closer. _Shit,_ he realises. _Her eyes are blue as fuck._ Giving himself a mental shake, he plays off the slight delay by letting his gaze drop to her lips, calling up the next line in his head. "What do you say, Miss Jeffrey?"

 

She looks at him, and — holy _shit_ — she lets _her_ own eyes flick to _his_ mouth. _Fuck._

 

"Friday," she says, just when he thinks he's about to start sweating. "Eight o'clock."

 

He lets himself linger in her space for a second more, and then pulls himself back, taking his hands off the doorframe.

 

"Friday," he repeats with a grin on his face as the doors slide closed — but not before he sees her roll her eyes one last time, a show of exasperation betrayed only by the small but _very_ real smile playing on her lips.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The first day of shooting for episode 208 arrives, both far too soon and way too late.

 

Bellamy stays up nearly half the night, a hurricane of roaring thoughts churning noiselessly in his head. He ends up oversleeping and dashes into the makeup trailer fifteen minutes past his call time.

 

He barely even pays attention to what’s going on around him, his script grasped in one steadily clamming hand as the makeup artist and Maya and his co-stars chatter on to his unhearing ears.

 

“I mean, it’s fucking unfair, isn’t it?” Raven’s saying as they board the buggy that’s taking them to set. “ _You’re_ getting a girlfriend before me. Gus West, resident fuckboy, getting a girlfriend before Morgan Moreno. It’s plain _rude,_ is what it is. I bet they’re gonna—” She trails off when he fails to start the buggy on his first two tries, her brows furrowing sharply. “Need some help?”

 

“I got it,” he says shortly, and, by some miracle, the buggy starts on his third try.

 

Raven is unnervingly quiet as they pull away from the trailers. He can practically feel her gaze burning a hole into the side of his face.

 

“Oh my God,” she says after a long moment. “You’re _nervous._ ”

 

“No I’m not,” he says immediately. Wincing at his overly prompt response, he tries again. “ _You’re_ nervous.”

 

0 for 2. Great.

 

“This is _amazing_ ,” Raven cackles, thumping him on the back. “You’re blushing! Oh my God, where’s my phone? I gotta get a video of this!”

 

“Our entire _jobs_ are about being videoed,” he says, deliberately swerving slightly to throw her balance off. “Do we really need _more_ footage of our faces?”

 

“Yes,” Raven says, working her phone out of her tight jeans pocket despite his bumpy driving and pulling the camera app up. “So, Bellamy. You’re about to have your first date with Clarke Griffin. How’s it feel?”

 

“It’s not _my_ first date,” he says, a little petulantly. “And it’s not Clarke Griffin I’m dating; it’s Evelyn Jeffrey.”

 

“He’s _adorable_ right now _,_ ” Raven narrates to the camera with a wide grin, the lens still focused on him.

 

He pulls the buggy to a stop, and makes a shooing motion at the camera with his hands. “Time to work, asshole,” he says, ignoring her villainous chortles as they get out of the buggy.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He finds himself having to repeat the sentiment to himself over and over as he’s in the wardrobe trailer getting changed to shoot the date scene. _Time to work, asshole._ This isn’t a real date, and he’s not really embarking on some fluffy romance with Clarke Griffin.

 

This is just their job. It’s _work._

 

Unfortunately, the mantra seems to dissolve into thin air when he returns to set to see Clarke Griffin already there.

 

Her neat blazers and smart suits were hot, he’s not about to deny that. They’re still _on TV,_ after all. But _this_ — this is _not_ what he’d expected at all.

 

“Wow,” he blurts out when Clarke turns towards him. He’d been expecting something soft, like a pretty dress and a pastel-coloured cardigan, or something.

 

There is _nothing_ pastel about her look now.

 

She’s wearing a sleeveless cobalt blue top and dark jeans that hug her every curve and line like they’ve been painted on, the silkiness of the top visible even under the fitted black leather jacket she has on.

 

He starts, noticing her wary frown. “I mean, that’s very…” He gestures towards her suede brown boots, reaching all the way up to her knees. “ _Wow._ ”

 

She tugs at the hem of her jacket. It’s cropped a little higher up than usual, ending right by her ribcage and making her look more like a biker chick than a public defender. “Yeah, I don’t think Evelyn Jeffrey and I have the same idea of what a first date outfit looks like.”

 

He waves his hands hastily. “No, it’s — it looks good. I like it.”

 

Her eyes dart up to his.

 

“Well,” he says quickly, calling on every reserve of acting experience and skill he has to assemble his features into a charming smirk, “at least, Gus would like it.”

 

She snorts then, carefully running her fingers through her tousled blonde curls. “I didn’t think Gus would appreciate his date looking more dangerous than him.”

 

He shrugs, hoping it looks a lot lighter than it feels. “Who says?” He pulls at the lapels of his own leather jacket. “Besides, we match.”

 

A small smile leaks from her then, one that quickly dissipates when Anya calls them in.

 

“Okay, so, first date!” Anya says, tucking her script under her arm. “The setup here is a little bit different because we’re not talking about cases or clients anymore, it’s just the two of you on your own outside the office. But I don’t want any of that tiptoeing, getting-to-know-you bullshit, okay? I want the exact same dynamic we saw in the last few episodes, except maybe a little less tooth and nail. Play with the space, with the body language and the contact. Take your time with the dialogue, don’t worry about rushing it — that’s for the editing room, not you. Got it? Questions? No? All right, let’s get ready to run it.”

 

“Just out of curiosity,” Clarke says as they’re getting situated on their barstools, hair and makeup going over them both one last time, “do you guys ever get in any _other_ directors?”

 

“Lately, I’m beginning to wonder myself,” he says dryly, and he _definitely_ doesn’t feel a burst of warmth at the responding twitch of her mouth and the twinkle in her eye.

 

“And we’re rolling,” Anya announces a minute later, raising a hand. “And… _action!”_

 

Bellamy leans forward on his elbows, privately glad to have an excuse to stare intensely into Clarke’s eyes. “So you don’t eat red meat, you know more about sports than me, _and_ you almost became a doctor.”

 

“ _Almost_ is a generous term,” Clarke says, arching a brow as she leans towards him. She does a damn good job of making it look like a completely sub-conscious decision, too. “I switched majors after one year of pre-med. It’s not like I ever got to cut anyone open.”

 

“Literally speaking, you mean,” he quips, letting his forearm rest on her leather jacket where it’s draped across the back of her stool. Trying not to think about how close that puts his hand to her bare arm, he pushes on. “Figuratively? Seems to me like you do plenty of that working for the DA.”

 

She shakes her head, and if her hair were just an inch longer, he would be able to feel the very ends brushing along his fingertips right now. “I do what I have to to get the job done, Detective West,” she says, the hint of a smirk dancing along her lips. “You know what that feels like, don’t you?”

 

The corner of his mouth curves upward. “I’ve been known to… be a little overbearing at times,” he concedes.

 

Her brows shoot up. “ _Overbearing?”_ she repeats incredulously, leaning back in her chair. “Try arrogant, pushy, _obnoxious_ —”

 

“I wouldn’t say _that_ ,” he says with a dismissive shrug.

 

She cocks her head, playful challenge written on her face. “What _would_ you say, then?”

 

He purses his lips, pretending to adopt a serious expression. “I would say… I do what I have to to get the job done.”

 

She looks up at him, as if incensed that he would mock her, and this is the part in the script where he’s supposed to smile reassuringly, and then with wordless nods, they slip into a shy silence, breaking eye contact like they’re embarrassed teenagers — very _Beauty and the Beast_ of them, _‘something there that wasn’t there before’_ — but then something snaps free in his chest, and he can’t help it.

 

He _laughs._

 

At first, Clarke looks surprised — but then she laughs too, and reaches out to lightly whack her hand against his chest. “Asshole,” she adds, grinning like she never has before.

 

And maybe he’s just high off of her unexpected ad-lib, but something possesses him to grab her hand with his, keeping it pressed against his body. “Right back at you.”

 

 

* * *

 

_[Incoming text message]_

 

**ok so heres what i'm thinkin-- luna waters as morgan's gf**

 

**u know? the girl from that mermaid show**

 

**she'd be perfect eh????**

 

**Raven. What does this have to do with me**

 

**what?? i deserve an onscreen gf too**

 

**esp if she could become my real life gf JUST SAYINNN**

 

**hello**

 

**helloooooo**

 

**?????**

 

**rude**

 

 

* * *

 

_[Incoming text message]_

 

**Bellamy.**

 

**Go away, Lincoln.**

 

**We just got done watching the dailies.**

 

**I'm busy, Lincoln.**

 

**Okay.**

 

**Nice job, is all I'm saying.**

 

**Goodbye**

 

 

* * *

 

 

Clarke's appearance in episode 209 is cancelled, which Bellamy definitely isn't _disappointed_ about.

 

Okay, cancelled is a strong word. It was _postponed,_ really. But even though he knows he's going to get to work with her for 210 anyway, it's still kind of a dampener, especially when he'd spent the entire week off expecting to see her when they started shooting on Tuesday.

 

"You know what this means, right?" Raven says as they're enjoying a rare minute of downtime midway through shooting the episode, lounging in the trailers as they wait to get called back to set.

 

He rolls his eyes, feigning indifference. "I'm sure you're going to tell me anyway."

 

Raven throws a kernel of unsalted popcorn at him — her favourite on-set snack.

 

"It _means,_ " she says, tossing another piece of popcorn at him for good measure, "they're rewriting her scenes." She gives him a pointed look. "Her scenes with _you._ "

 

He stands up, trying and failing to ignore the liquid clouds of lightness and warmth swelling in his chest. "I'm gonna go find Monty."

 

"Gus and Evelyn sitting in a tree," Raven sings after him. "K-I—"

 

He slams the trailer door shut.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The updated script for 210 arrives on a Friday.

 

The second he gets done reading it, he picks up his phone and searches through his contacts until he finds what he's looking for. _Clarke Griffin._ They'd exchanged numbers once they were wrapped on 208, but they hadn't actually contacted each other… yet.

 

Tapping on _'Send a message',_ he stares at the blank text box on his screen.

 

_It's just a scene,_ he tells himself. _It's just ACTING. It's not real. None of it is real._

 

Closing the empty text box, he tosses his phone aside.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"You should have told me!"

 

She frowns, closing her laptop. "No, I shouldn't have. I'm obliged to maintain a strict attorney-client privilege—"

 

"That's between you and your goddamn client," he returns heatedly. "I'm talking about _you_ here."

 

She pushes up from her seat, bracing her hands on her desk. "I _really_ don't think you have the right to barge into my office unannounced just to try and tell me how to do my job."

 

He scoffs, folding his arms across his chest. "Well, I don't think you have the _right_ to tell people they're not allowed to give a shit about you. This guy is _dangerous,_ Evelyn."

 

"And I'm more than capable of handling myself, Detective," she says, eyes hard.

 

"No, you're not!" he bursts out, yanking his arms free. "You _think_ you know how to protect yourself, but you don't! I've seen what these guys can do, Evelyn! I know how they think, how they operate. You sit here in your cosy little office all day and you think you know something about real criminals? You _don't_!"

 

The silence that descends on them is thick and suffocating. Her little office seems even smaller than usual, the walls closing in around them both.

 

After a long, tense moment, she lifts her chin. "I think," she says, her gaze steady on the collar of his jacket, "it's time for you to go."

 

He stares at her, his chest still unbearably, achingly tight. Running a hand through his dishevelled hair, he nods and, in one smooth move, whirls about on his heel and wrenches the door open, charging through it with all the grace of a blind bull in a china shop.

 

"And _cut!_ " Anya peers out from behind the camera. "Good scene, everybody," she says, looking around as if addressing the gaggle of crew gathered on set will diffuse the heavy tension still lingering in the room. "Clear the set and ready for the next one." Her eyes flick to him and Clarke, and she nods. "Why don't you two go get changed? We roll again in thirty minutes."

 

They're back again in twenty-five.

 

Bellamy hasn't had much done to him — he had a bit of powder patted into his face but nothing else; his badge is removed and so is his tie, but he's still in the dark shirt and jacket Gus West wears to the precinct — but Clarke looks _completely_ different. For one thing, her hair is down, the soft waves falling around her face and shoulders in stark contrast to Evelyn Jeffrey's usual professional updos and pinned-back hairstyles. Her neat blazer and skirt are gone, replaced by thin black leggings and a soft, oversized cream-coloured sweater, the scoop neckline slipping over one shoulder to show a _lot_ of fair skin and even though he _knows_ for a fact that she's definitely not bare under there, it's still, well, _a lot._

 

Her feet are in soft slippers, the kind often found in hotel rooms and spas, and the glaring lack of high heels on them makes Bellamy realise just how many inches he has on her. It's definitely a couple more than he'd thought. _Incredible,_ he thinks vaguely. Five (and a half) episodes with Clarke, and he'd never once noticed their height difference until now.

 

To his surprise, Anya leaves her spot behind the camera to approach them. She usually doesn't bother moving around — constantly changing her position makes it too hard for people to get ahold of her quickly, especially in the middle of a crowded set. No, whenever she needs to talk to someone, she prefers to call them over to her instead.

 

It feels weird, like he's getting special treatment at school.

 

Anya taps her rolled-up, heavily highlighted script into the open palm of her other hand once, and then twice, like a judge calling her court to order. "Obviously, this is a bit of a departure from all the previous scenes with Gus and Evelyn. Now, the dialogue here is important as resolution to the conflict that's been set up over the rest of the episode, but I don't think it has to be _the_ important thing. The conversation isn't just you two closing the chapter and opening a new one — I don't want to shift from one atmosphere to another. I want this dialogue to be a ramp we travel up on, and then, once you've built it up, that's where the _real_ scene begins. Do you get what I mean?"

 

They nod.

 

"Good." Anya pushes at the bill of her baseball cap. "Let's get to places then. Two minutes."

 

Once they're led over to their marks, they're promptly left alone. It's a rare occurrence that they're left entirely to their own devices on a busy set, without the director or script supervisor or any hair or makeup people fussing over them.

 

"So, uh," Bellamy starts, glancing at Clarke's bare feet — she's taken the slippers off so her soles are bare against the floor, "I know we haven't really had any time to rehearse this part yet, but I just thought— I mean, how much do you think we should—"

 

He raises his hands, gesturing vaguely. And then promptly drops them again, trailing off into nothingness once he realises he has no idea how to phrase the thoughts churning in his head.

 

Clarke looks at him steadily, seeming to understand the question without him actually asking it. "All of it."

 

He meets her gaze then, brows lifting with an emotion that's really only half surprise. " _All_ of it?"

 

She shrugs, the move nonchalant but betrayed by the tense set of her jaw. "Yeah. I mean, we don't really know how it'll turn out, right? Let's just… go all in. It shouldn't matter too much what we do, as long as we do it together."

 

He sees the determination in her eyes, hears the hint of challenge in her tone. But weirdly enough, it's all laced with something else. Something that feels a lot like _trust._

 

"Yeah, okay," he says, nodding slowly. "Together."

 

Something shifts in her gaze then, flickering in the arctic depths of her irises.

 

"All right, clear the set!" Anya calls, and Bellamy forces himself to _move,_ finding his mark and shutting the door between them. "Roll camera… and… _action!_ "

 

A beat. The door opens.

 

"Detective West." Clarke (Evelyn) peers up at him from the hallway of her apartment, her expression guardedly neutral. "It's getting late. What are you—"

 

"I'm sorry," he (Gus) bursts out, the words spilling from him before she can even finish, like water breaking through a dam. "You were right. I don't get to tell you how to do your job. I should have listened to you."

 

She folds her arms carefully, looking like she's taking extra care to form her response. "Yes, you should have. Maybe then you wouldn't have assumed that I spend all day just sitting in my 'cosy little office'. I may not wave a gun around like you or your colleagues, but my work's important too, okay?"

 

"I know," he says, shaking his head. "I shouldn't have said that. It was out of line."

 

She pushes her hair back with one hand, the silky blonde waves tumbling right back down to frame her face as soon as her fingers leave the strands. "Yeah, you got that right. You know, Gus, just because we happen to be—I don't know, _seeing_ each other? Whatever it is, it doesn't give you the right to order me around."

 

"I shouldn't have tried to give you orders," he agrees, stepping forward urgently. "You're not my subordinate, or my colleague, or whatever. You're—" He swallows, trying to fight off the heat pricking at his eyes. "You're _important_."

 

She frowns. "That's exactly what I'm saying. I know you're good at what you do, but I am, too. And part of my job is—"

 

"No, Evelyn"—Gus steps forward, and Bellamy's throat is rough—"I mean, you're important _to me._ "

 

He expects her eyes to widen, in that muted stunned-speechless way that all actors do when they're doing big confession scenes, especially those of a romantic nature. But Clarke just tilts her head, her expression softening in a way he didn't even know it could until now, eyes studying his face intently, like she's able to see right through his skin and bones.

 

After what feels like an eternity, she exhales, pulling her arms free and stepping forward, right into his space.

 

He thinks he might hear her mutter a low _"damn it,"_ but he can't quite focus on the words when her hands are on his face, cupping round his neck to pull him down even as she leans up — and just like that, they're locked in a kiss.

 

This is the part where the script calls for them to pull back, to exchange soft, understanding smiles and close out the scene with sweet sentiment.

 

But for some reason, his brain doesn't seem to give two fucks about that, his lips already moving to return the pressure of hers, his hands automatically finding her waist to steady them both, and then sliding all the way around to wrap around her back and bring her body flush against his. The mere sensation of that contact elicits a low sound from them both, pulled deep from the backs of their throats — and then the next thing he knows, his mouth is opening for her (or maybe hers for him), and with his hands roaming up her spine and hers sliding into his hair, he thinks, _fuck,_ he's definitely in far deeper than he intended to be.

 

He forces himself to slow it down, to pull back from the intoxicating warmth of her mouth slowly, kiss by kiss. Even so, once their lips have managed to part, he finds the rest of him unable to follow suit, his forehead dipping slightly to press against hers. He finds an overwhelming amount of relief and gratitude in the fact that she doesn't seem to want to pull away either, her fingers tangling even deeper into his hair.

 

She sighs against his mouth, her body pressing impossibly closer. "You're important to me too," she says, the words barely more than a whisper but at the same time, so much more emphatic to his ears than a shout.

 

The line jolts him back into reality, and it's both the most pleasant and unpleasant feeling he's ever experienced — but not at all in a bad way. The spell is broken, but also, somehow, it's _not._

 

Smiling at the thought, he eases back from her, no more than a couple inches or so. "Oh, and, for the record, Miss Jeffrey — we are definitely, very much seeing each other."

 

The smile that appears on her face is almost enough to make him want to decide to hell with the scene and just kiss her again.

 

Clearly, his self-control is a lot more effective than he thinks, because by some unknown reserve of strength, he manages to hold off the extra few seconds it takes for Anya to yell _"cut!"_

 

As Anya heads towards them, he takes a step back and tries to remind himself it's not cool to behave like a high schooler who's just been caught making out with his boy/girlfriend under the bleachers — but his eye catches Clarke's, and before he knows it, he's fighting like hell to suppress both the grin and the hot blush blooming in his cheeks. He ducks his head, pretending to fix his hair as he buys himself a few extra moments to compose himself. Thank God the lighting for the scene is blessedly dark.

 

"Wow," Anya says once she's in front of them, hands on her hips. "I mean… _wow."_

 

All traces of amusement vaporise instantly, and Bellamy looks up. "That bad, huh?" he says wryly, but it's only half a joke.

 

Anya's gaze cuts to him, narrowing sharply. "I don't mean 'bad'. When I mean 'bad', I'll say 'bad'. I mean wow as in… _wow."_

 

Clarke glances at him and then back at Anya, so lightning quick he almost misses it. "So it was... good?"

 

"Not gonna lie, it was different."

 

"Different good?" Bellamy prompts. _Or different bad,_ he finishes silently. Somehow, he doesn't think bringing up the B-word is going to help in this case.

 

Anya studies them both for a long, long moment, her expression inscrutable. All of a sudden, he's not sure which answer he wants to hear.

 

"Different _better,_ " she says at last, her eyes flaring animatedly. "I gotta admit, it wasn't what I originally saw in the script, but you two really committed to it and, what do you know? It worked."

 

"Really?" Bellamy says, trying to sound more surprised than pleased. "You don't think it was too much?"

 

"Hell no," Anya says, looking almost offended. "I want to run it again, exactly the way you did it just then." She turns towards the script supervisor, exchanging a few silent gestures with the other woman across the room before pivoting back towards them. "Let's do a few more takes of that, and then we'll do a couple with a more vanilla version, just to keep the writers happy. You know, in case they hit themselves on the head and decide they _don't_ want a good episode."

 

Clarke snorts, and Bellamy shakes his head, not bothering to hide his smile any longer. "Thanks, Anya."

 

Anya gives him a look. "Don't thank me just yet. You're gonna get real sick of each other's mouths in an hour or so." She starts back towards her chair, clapping her hands and then flapping them in wide circles to get the attention of the crew. "All right, we're getting ready to go again, people! Two minutes!"

 

Once her back is turned, Bellamy lets himself look at Clarke properly. "That was— uh, that was good work."

 

She nods, meeting his gaze. "You too. Nice touch with the—" She gestures at her forehead, and then his.

 

His heartbeat quickens, but he just shrugs. "Nah, that was both of us. Couldn't have worked with just me. It had to be us, together."

 

"Yeah. Together." She smiles, but something about her expression still seems more pensive than satisfied.

 

"Something wrong?" he asks, brows knitting together.

 

She looks around, forehead wrinkled like she's trying to figure a math problem out in her head. "Not really. I just—" Her eyes dart to his, and then flick away. "Okay, well. This is really not a problem. It's just… I've always noticed a certain discomfort about doing—uh— _this type_ of scene."

 

He nods readily. "Oh, yeah. Me too."

 

Her gaze snaps to his. "Really?"

 

"Yeah," he says, slightly bemused. "I mean, the lights, the cameras, the crew everywhere? It just never feels as romantic as it looks onscreen, does it?" He offers her a reassuring smile. "Nothing to worry about. It's weird for everyone."

 

She tilts her head. "See, that's the thing though. This time, with you, it didn't feel— I mean, there wasn't the same—" She breaks off, lips pursing for a long beat before she finally exhales, and meets his eye. "Somehow, it's just not as weird with you."

 

His heart stutters to a standstill inside of his chest. Suddenly, it occurs to him that throughout the entire time they were performing the scene, he never once had a thought about how hot the lights were on his skin or how close the camera was to his person. Just then, when Anya was warning them about getting tired of kissing, he never even felt the undercurrent of dread that usually accompanies him into shooting sessions for love scenes.

 

He thought about none of that. All he could think of — all he _can_ think of, even right now, is Clarke, Clarke, _Clarke._

 

Slowly, he draws a careful breath.

 

"Yeah," he says, looking at her. "It's not as weird with you, too."

 

 

* * *

 

 

A few weeks after they get done shooting for the last three episodes of the season (two of which Evelyn Jeffrey returns for), the network begins official negotiations with Clarke to see about installing her as a series regular for season three of _Squad._

 

"I mean, first of all, we'll have to see if we even _get_ a season three," says Harper, their network liaison. "But streaming ratings for season 1 are still climbing, and social media buzz for the show is holding strong even during hiatus, so I've gotta say — the chances look good."

 

Everyone seems happy with the decision, from Jaha to Kane and even Indra, who never ever looks remotely happy about _anything._ Monty even sends Clarke an achingly adorable, three-page email detailing all the reasons she should definitely accept the offer from the network, including gems like _'No. 4: We can sneak alcohol on set when Jaha isn't looking', 'No. 8: We can make fun of Miller's (sound guy) crush on Bryan (camera guy) together'_ and _'No. 27: We can play good-natured pranks on Bellamy e.g. switch his protein powder out for powdered sugar.'_

 

The most enthused person (aside from himself, of course) turns out to be Raven, although it turns out it has much less to do with Clarke herself than it does with the fact that "now they have absolutely no reason to say no to me when I tell them to make Luna Waters my girlfriend next season."

 

"You mean Morgan's girlfriend, right?" Bellamy says, half-joking.

 

Raven merely looks at him. "Yeah, sure. That too."

 

He thinks of saying something in his own defense, but then he decides that would probably be an asshole move, especially seeing as Clarke Griffin is now _officially his real-life girlfriend._ All it took was six months of shooting together, calling each other up to run lines over the phone or FaceTime, meeting up for multiple dinners and drinks in between episode shoots where they usually spent the first twenty to thirty minutes pretending they were only hanging out to "bond" better for the sake of their onscreen chemistry.

 

He would describe it as life imitating art, but in their case, he's pretty sure it could just as well be the other way around.

 

"I mean, the contract itself is pretty good," Clarke muses as they're lounging in bed one lazy Sunday morning. She's flat on her stomach with the document in front of her, flipping slowly through the pages and seemingly uncaring of the fact that she's completely naked save for the sheet thrown haphazardly over her lower half, the smooth expanse of her back on display. "The salary's even a little better than my agent expected."

 

Bellamy rolls over and presses a kiss to her bare shoulder, one appreciative hand palming over the dip in her lower back. "But?"

 

She turns to look at him, one brow arched teasingly. "But I'm not so sure about this onscreen love interest. There's probably gonna be a lot of kissing. I could get real sick of his mouth halfway through the season."

 

He swats lightly at her ass and grabs the contract out from under her, tossing it onto his bedside table. "We'll see if you get sick of his mouth in a few minutes," he promises with a grin, rolling her over deftly and ripping the sheet off her, settling between her legs even as she keeps giggling.

 

She stops pretty quickly, though.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The season two premiere kicks off on a Thursday night.

 

Monty invites them all to his place for a cast viewing. They settle into their chosen spots for the night with cold beers and bags of Doritos, and as Bellamy and Raven and the rest of the main cast are obliged to do, they proceed to spend the two-hour special event tweeting and Instagramming and Snapchatting their way through the episodes, occasionally pausing to retweet each other or reply to fan questions. Bellamy isn't nearly as proficient in social media as Raven and Monty are. In fact, he tends to visit Twitter only when the network tells him to promote his own show, but he takes great comfort in the knowledge that Clarke doesn't even have a single post up on Twitter or Instagram yet, both accounts having only recently been made at the insistence of Raven and Monty.

 

Nevertheless, Bellamy thinks he does pretty well as long as he sticks to his filtered mentions feed. The trick, he tells himself, is to manage _how much_ information he's allowing himself to see.

 

They're about fifteen minutes into the airing of episode two when he starts to notice it.

 

"Westfrey," he reads, squinting at his Twitter timeline. He frowns at Clarke, and then Raven. "What's a _Westfrey_?"

 

Raven looks like she's torn between wanting to laugh and wanting to sock him in the face. "It's _you,_ dumbass. Both of you!" She points at the screen, where he and Clarke (Gus and Evelyn) are in another heated exchange. "West and Jeffrey. _Westfrey._ "

 

Clarke leans over his arm to peer at his phone screen. "What's that? A couple name?"

 

" _Ship_ name," Monty corrects with a grin.

 

Raven shakes her head. "God, we have _so_ much to teach you."

 

Bellamy wrinkles his nose. "'Westfrey' kind of sounds like we're in _Game of Thrones._ "

 

Raven arches a brow. " _You_ try getting 'Guslyn' off the ground, then. Or would you prefer we go back to 'Morgus'?"

 

"Fuck no," he says easily, lifting his arm to wrap it around Clarke, pulling her in closer. "Westfrey it is."

 

"The fan reaction looks _really_ good so far," Monty reports, nose glued to his phone and one hand on his laptop keyboard. "A few die-hard Morgus shippers aren't too happy, but everyone else seems to be jumping on the Westfrey train." He looks up, forehead wrinkling in concern. "I just hope this doesn't start any ship wars."

 

Clarke shakes her head. "I understand about twelve percent of this."

 

Bellamy smiles, and draws her close, pressing his lips to her hair. "Don't worry, Miss Jeffrey. We'll figure it out together."

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> phew this was a MUCH longer haul than i'd anticipated at the start but good on you for sticking with it to the end!!!! do drop me a comment if you've any thoughts or feelings, it would be super helpful =)
> 
> i'm also [on tumblr](http://ticogirls.tumblr.com)!


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